x & n If THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES t^ * V ^INTHE-CdRPEN-w OF-VEftCL- ni'torf > . ' r" JMtyLv-i-.j/.'.'A] 4," " ''/i ^■- >W:.'-i/, [to. i )//, Co. At the Ballantyne Press /5f C3f. To my Sister ISABELLA FRANCES WESTON * * * * As I sit in my rose-garden by the old sun-dial, and listen to the cooing of the doves in the verandah and the restful fall of the weir at the foot of the sandy lane, I bid the sunshine and the birds and the moving shadoii's bear a message to you in your beautiful garden, for I know that you will lovingly welcome the thoughts that have been nurtured in the Garden of Peace Heathyfield ft q August 25th 8C6172 '• My garden invites into it all the birds of the country, by offering them the conveniency of springs and shades, solitude and shelter ; I do not suffer any one to destroy their nests in the Spring. Bv tliis means I have always the music of the season in its perfection." Addison. CONTENTS A Reverie Page i The Dawn Chorus I 3 Feathered Architects 23 Apartments to Let 33 Under the Spanish Chestnut 45 Garden Contrasts 55 Character Sketches 65 The Charm of Birds 77 Among the Roses 87 A Study in Titmice 95 Birds in a Garden 107 Bird-Life in Spring 119 A Stranger in the Garden 127 Trespassers will be Prosecuted 139 Round the Sun-Dial 151 A Study in Doves 163 L'Envoi 171 IX LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Sundial To face title •Bluet its on Venetian 'Bucket Vignette on title The T)oor of the Home Tage I The Home 7 Sunrise from the Garden 1 3 Golden Crests 23 Big Tits and 'Bird-'Box 33 The (M is tress Window 39 Passion Flower 45 IV hit e Lupins and Oriental Poppies 55 Woodpeckers 65 /;/ the Garden of Teace 73 View from the Garden 77 " Maids of the Village" 87 Bluetits and their Box 95 The Verandah and the SWespilus Trees from the Window 1 o 1 Chaffinches in the Rhododendrons 107 Xut-hatches 1 1 9 xi List of Illustrations The Galar Page 127 Laddie 139 The Rose Garden from the {Mistress Window 151 In the Rose Garden 155 Doves 163 (Madonna Lilies 1 7 1 X!l " The true charm of Natural History must be in the mind of tin- person who seeks information at the hand of Nature; and no words can ever describe the never ceasing, ever varying delight that such a mind is susceptible of when able to appreciate the wonderful works of the Creator as seen in the least of His creatures, or the tiniest flower that grows at our feet." R. T. K. L. A REVERIE It was on a dull, dreary day that we happened upon the Garden of Peace ; rain- drops dripped from the trees, in a world of harmonious grey. But what mattered the colour of clouds, when the sunshine in our hearts found a rainbow in every storm, when love shone through every shower ? The laivn sloped from the house down into the wood, and a Spanish chestnut spread its arms on one side over the grass by a pinsapo and Douglas fir. There were banks of rhododendrons, and an Austrian pine near a heather bed, where the white St. Dabeac grew in profusion. Passing along the verandah and under an arch of Portugal laurel, we came to a little rosary with an old zuorld sun-dial in the centre. It zuas the sun-dial which sealed our fate ; though — who Icnows ? — our home had been marked in the heaven chart for ages upon ages. It was only a glance, yet our hearts took root in a moment, and even 3 A Reverie the giant neglect did not thwart us. It was only an illustration of tJie lines written hundreds of years ago : " Gardens of old, nor art, nor rules obefd, But unadorned a wild neglect betray 'd ; jRoses confusedly spread were often found Blushing to mix with weeds, nor was the ground RoWdinto walks, nor graced with box around" A rockery bordered one side of the rosary, with barberries and snowy mespilus trees 211 the background, and banks of spirceas, syringas, laburnums, and hollies, with a white acacia tree lowering above the rest. And the house? It was enough that it was trellised and covered with creepers ; we gave it hardly a glance, for we looked into the garden, and beyond the garden down into the valley, and to the fir woods, where a glint of pale larch green and rose-tints told us the news that Spring zvas coming, and that the earth zvas awakening from her sleep. We listened to the birds, and they gave us wel- come. Later in the day we met the Sage and said to him, " We have found our home, we have found the Garden of Peace." "But the house f" answered the Sage; "you must not be carried away by an idea, the house is the important factor in lifer 4 A Reverie " The house" we answered, a certain feel- ing of guilt creeping over us. " We did not go into the house!' The Sage smiled a superior smile and promised to ride over and inspect our haven on the morrow. "It is the very place for you" he said breathlessly, on his return. " JVo other corner in the world will suit you so well ; the garden is absolute perfection!' " And the house ? " I questioned solemnly. " Is the dwelling-place convenient f " Oh ! as to that," he ansivered sheepishly, 1 ' I forgot to go into the house ; it was only the garden I thought of!' So it came about that without thought of our comfort we found ourselves in possession of the Garden of Peace. " When you settle in a home let it be near friends, and in a village!' was the advice showered upon us beforehand, but we took no heed, for zve fancifully thought that we knew best what we wanted, and the "fairy- story house!' as it is called now, is down a bye-road, in the woods, far from kith and kin and out of reach of the sound of a busy world, only the fall of a weir in the vale breaking the intense stillness and silence. The sweet songs of birds were heard on every side, and every flower and leaf told its 5 A Reverie own tale — the wonderful story of life — every nestling that broke the slender shell and every bud that burst its green prison-house being expressions of the Divine Will. It must have been the birds who first called our garden " The Garden of Peace." Per- haps the golden-crests christened it as they built their beautiful hanging nest in the pinsapo on the lawn, low down and in easy view, to show their trust as they few in and out feeding their miniature young ; or the bullfinches in the rhododendrons — -for they showed no fear as they flew about together looking for clematis twigs ; the bullies were never seen apart, and were a pattern of conjugal felicity. Or was it the black-cap, or the long-tailed tit, or willow-wren, or wag-tail who called it so ? Or did the name weave itself into the great Dazvn Chorus and die away at eventide as the tired throstle sang his serenade in the chestnut branches ? Whoever gave the sweet name it is verily a garden of peace for birds, for in winter time they come for food, and hurry from the trees and shrubberies in answer to a familiar whistle. In spring they build their nests close to the window and on the trellis, shap- ing the tiny homes even as we stand and watch them. In summer they rear their 6 A Reverie young, and sing again for joy that their work of love is over ; and in autumn they come and go at will, singing as birds never sing in other gardens, perching on a bough of mespilus close to the garden-seat, and telling of their joys and sorrows ; for they know they can reckon, on our sympathy. The flowers are their only rivals, and the Skye terrier their only enemy, and in the main Laddie but frightens them for fin and seldom turns a practical joke into serious earnest. "Let us call the birds in these places of delight ; their concerts will drazv man hither, ana I will form a hundred times better eulogy of a taste for sentiment than marble and bronze, whose display but produces a stzpid wonderment." This from a French writer, but who can fail to write lovingly about birds ? Ln the Garden of Peace we treat them as friends, they are not natural history specimens to us ; we have learnt their ways and habits, and know what food they love and what homes they would best inhabit. Turning the leaves of " The Compleat Angler" we recall Izaak Walton's descrip- tion of birds, which must charm every lover of our feathered friends. " . . . . those little nimble musicians of the air, that 9 A Reverie warble forth their curious ditties, with which Nature hath furnished them to the shame of art. "As, first, the lark, when she means to rejoice, to cheer herself and those that hear her; she then qtcits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air, and having ended her heavenly employment grows then mute and sad, to think she must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch but for necessity. " How do the blackbird and thrassel, with their melodious voices, bid welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed months warble forth such ditties as no art or in- strument can reach to. Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular seasons " But the nightingale [another of my airy creatures) breathes such sweet, kind music out of her instrumental throat, that it might make mankind think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and re-doubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, 'Lord, what music hast Tho7L provided for the saints in heaven, IO A Reverie when Thou affordest bad men such music on earth ? ' Yes ; I would fain believe it was the birds who named our garden; but, after all, it may have been the lovers who found a shady shelter on the bank, and took no note of sttnset or shadow. Some say it was the mother wearied with overmuch love who came for rest, and some a worker from the din of town. After all, perhaps the name origin- ated in our hearts, simply because no storm, or bickering, or discontent could enter here. 1 1 •'Hark ! how the cheerful birds do chant their lays A nd carol of Love's praise ; The merry lark her matins sings aloft. The thrush replies ; the mavis descant plays, The ouzel shrills, the ruddock warbles soft, So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, To this day's merriment." Edmund Spenser. THE DAWN CHORUS "The birds that hop from twio- to twie in i i • • our gardens, that sing in our bowers, are part of ourselves ; they speak to us from our earliest years, and we learn to under- stand their language." Was it not the great thinker, Goethe, who said these words ? Oh ! yes ; and surely he has re- vealed to us many secrets which the birds disclosed to him in twitter and in song. And we ? Shall we not try to understand that mysterious language, too, and trace in each note and changing cadence the old, old story, which is heard in every garden, if only we rise above the work-a-day world and listen with our hearts as well as with our ears ? It is in the spring-time that this bird-lan- guage can be most perfectly studied. The musical warblers are with us, and all birds are in full song ; and while they watch over their nests they give vent to notes of alarm and anger which are not heard at other The Dawn Chorus times. It is a study which naturally re- quires close and persistent observation and a great amount of patience, but any time expended in learning different notes, and tracing character in our feathered friends, is a thousand times repaid by the pleasure of the knowledge gained. That birds use bad lano-uage is indis- putable. If you pay a visit to jenny-wren's nest in the garden-bank, she will hop up on to the paling and expostulate with much indignation at the intrusion ; she will scold and rattle and pour forth the vials of her wrath upon you in a manner quite peculiar to herself. The wren's song is very loud for so small a bird ; it is quick and bustling, and the little upright tail jerks with the exertion of singing, and emphasises the high notes. Birds betray their character in their song, as human beings do in conversation ; the willow- wren, for instance — the next migrant to arrive after the chiff-chaff — is a merry debonair songster, singing recklessly the whole day long, and his must be a gay, thoughtless character ; while the wood- wren is a delicate, plaintive bird, tired out by his long flight hither, and showing his weariness in every sad note of his song. He is called " the shaker of the woods," it 16 The Dawn Chorus is a great effort to him to sing-, and he shakes as he gives his sibilant trill. Surely the coo of the turtle-dove betokens a peaceful nature ; you never see one fussing or hurrying or quarrelling ; they sit calmly up in the fir-tree, then take a solemn little fly, and return to coo on the same spot. Up in the air the white-throat sings in a fascinating attitude, and he evidently studies appearances and likes to show off his accomplishments, for not many birds sing while flying. The tree-pipit does ; he has a pretty manner of rising up as he sings, higher and higher, until he reaches the topmost branch, then shoots up into the air, still singing as he flutters down, executing this scale of song and movement successfully over and over again. The song of the blackbird is a full, rich song, a false note can never be traced in it ; his is an honest, jovial nature, though never living on good terms with his mate. Drayton calls him the " mirthful merle," and the garden rings with his alarm-note when any enemy crosses his path or nears his nest. Many think the cuckoo has only the one familiar song, and do not realise the peculiar gurgle he has, which is much the same noise as a terrier makes when he is shaking a rat, while the female has quite 17 B The Dawn Chorus a different note, a sort of laughing bubble uttered very quickly, which she preludes with a low, harsh sound. Every one knows the cuckoo's bad character, and how he does not even trouble to have a nest of his own. Of course it is impossible to trace the characters of all our common birds, the primaeval teachers of melody. The bird key-note is to be traced in the songs and ballads of all the poets of olden days ; poets of to-day only sing about birds — you cannot trace the tone of the actual bird-song in their work as you can in the past — but no poet can give you the blackcap's deliciously liquid note, or the nightingale's trill. I have told you Izaak Walton says, "She breathes such sweet music out of her intermittant throat, that it might make mankind to think that miracles have not ceased." Of course the night- ingale is the greatest musician we have, a professional amongst songsters, "most musical, most melancholy," as Milton writes. But no poet — though Tennyson reached as near perfection as possible — can convey the music of the thrush's solo in the chestnut at eventide, when other birds are asleep. It is curious to note in birds that those who eo to bed first are often the last to iS The Dawn Chorus g-et up ; take the sparrows for instance ; perhaps it is because they are such chatter- ing, gossiping folk, and so need more rest, for they seem always to be chirping about nothing, and belong to a low caste, with a greedy character, and no discrimination as to locality or class. The sparrow has nothing" to recommend him, his nest is untidy, and his knowledge of architecture is nil, only the legendary leper was grate- ful to him. Those who listen to the songs of birds in the daytime and at eventide, and are content to sleep away the hours about sunrise, know little of the beauty and magnitude of the great dawn chorus- — as it may be termed — from Nature's bird-opera, in which all the singers are in tune, and the harmony is complete. Early in the month of May, about three o'clock in the morning — an hour before sunrise— the wonderful strange silence and stillness of night is broken only by the rush of the river in the distance, restlessly flowing away to the sea, and even the breeze dies weary with fanning the firs. The hush is supreme, and the grass crisp and white, for Jack Frost has touched the garden with his finger-tips. Soon a moor-hen croaks his way home from the pasture, and a The Dawn Chorus pheasant and wild-duck are heard in the wood and by the lake ; but they only mark the silence, as do the rooks cawing sleepily in the rookery, bidding- the jackdaws good morning as they mutually quarrel over their young. A chill, grey half-hour passes ; and slowly and quietly from the corn-field, beyond the river, a skylark rises into the air with feeble and uncertain song, but as he climbs the heavens with ever-widening circles of flight, the notes become more rich and clear, and perfect in timbre, until at length the whole valley beneath is flooded with a strain of exquisite melody. This is the first solo, the first pouring out of praise in honour to the new-born day. Shakespeare, in one of his most beautiful sonnets, speaks of this first song as a hymn — " Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate." When the notes of the lark have reached their highest pitch of excellence, the vaga- bond cuckoo is heard, less melodious but perhaps more dearly loved, and the two well-known notes are followed by the gurgle as if the bird were scolding his wife for beinof late. Two minutes later a black- 20 The Dawn Chorus bird gives the signal and begins to sing in the copse, and he is echoed in the Garden of Peace by a throstle ; then all of a sudden in a moment's space there is an awakening, a bewildering burst of song surrounds and almost deafens the listener, and fills him with amazement. A glorious chorus of blackbirds and thrushes crowds the air, a chorus unknown and undreamt of by those who only hear the day-songs. The birds vie with each other in singing their loudest and in trying who can lift the clearest voice to the dawn ; it is a great burst of thanks- giving from all the feathered host, perfect in rhythm and melody, maddening in measure. And not only the blackbirds and throstles form the chorus, but the robin next joins in, then — as they awake in order— the blue-tit and the wren, hedge- sparrows and nut-hatches, the tiny willow- wren and golden-crests, and warblers ; and after the first burst comes a duet in the pine-tree by the pigeon and turtle-dove, accompanied by the starling, who tries in his conceited way to imitate the rest. Still the chorus continues ; then, gradually, the music is hushed, and in a quarter of an hour there is again a partial silence ; the chorus is over, singers rest, the sun is rising in the east, and only solos by late 21 The Dawn Chorus sleepers are heard at intervals. It is a wonderful experience, this dawn chorus, in its setting of grey, when the world slum- bers, and the spring flowers, now heavily laden with dew, droop their heads as if they were saying their silent morning prayer to the rising sun. The birds seem fresher and their voices clearer at daybreak than at any other period ; all their hearts are in their song, the work of feeding and building and nesting has not begun for the day, so there is nothing to call their attention away, no "trivial round" or commonplace alarm to distract them. In the chill air the chorus rises from earth to heaven in one over- whelming burst of song". 22 &■■*&■ ! ! ARCHITE.CTSi' i = ; 3 Abertus. " Hast thou ever seen anything more pleasant than this garden ? " Bartolimus. " / scarce think there is any place more delightsome in the Fortunate Islands" . . . . " Truly all things do wonderfully smile upon us.''' Erasmus. FEATHERED ARCHITECTS In the Garden of Peace when the laburnum hangs its head, overburdened with its weight of gold, soft amethyst tresses of lilac scent the air, and spiraeas, nestling in their beds of tender green, shine out white and pure. The rhododendrons burst their buds in gladness as the May sun warms them into life, and tall, purple, velvet irises lift their haughty heads in a family group. For the love that we bear them the birds have chosen our garden as a favourite nesting haunt, and though the bounds of the sloping lawn and mossy banks are limited, Nature has been lavish with her treasures, and the silence and rest and peace suit the songsters, who sing in their joy for spring ; only " the winds and lights and shadows that cannot be still ' and the sound of a weir in the valley below break the monotony of the woodland. In the cedar and Austrian pine and 2 5 Feathered Architects Spanish chestnut hang the familiar larch boxes, and a marsh-tit, a big tit, and two blue-tits have again made their homes in them. The little birds sit close, trusting to the love of their visitor not to be dis- turbed, only the palpitating tail indicating- how the little bird-heart is throbbing in tender anxiety. Before the nestlings are hatched, while the parents go for a ramble in the copse, they cover the eggs with loose feathers to hide them from the gaze of intruders. The blue-tit is not so civil as the marsh-tit when we pay her a visit, for she sits and swears at us in the rudest manner possible, and spits again and again insultingly, and her mate dances about overhead, using such bad language that it is best to beat a retreat and peep into the other box on the chestnut tree. There the parents hop in and out every thirty seconds, and a mass of red wria-odino- bird- lets with big yellow mouths open in greedy watchfulness. In the erica bed, not far from "the mad little tits," and overhung by crimson heather-bells, the little willow- wren has built her domed nest — marvel- lously made to match the surroundings — of dried grass and heather and moss, and softly lined with down. It is close to the path, but she never moves unless we hunt 26 Feathered Architects for her home too closely ; then she only flies to the bushes hard by and cowers down, spreading out her tail while her tiny white eggs spotted with red are examined. Alas ! Skye-terriers are boastful of their success as birdnesters, and little red corpses have been laid at my feet by Laddie to be bitterly mourned over. Scolding is of no avail ; his highland majesty's black nose stirs up a birdnest as if it were a hasty pudding. Near by the willow-wren, in the rhodo- dendron clump, the long-tailed tits dance and flutter in the air over their beautiful nest, which is like a soft moss-ball covered with a delicate tracery of lichen, lodged between two tender stems, and having a hole at the side for an entrance ; inside it is a soft feather bed, and like the other tits -before the eggs are hatched — the parents stuff up the hole with a bunch of feathers when they go out a-flying. Wonder can only fill my heart at so much beauty, so much unwearied toil and patient art, and "definite purpose of obtaining ornamental form," as Ruskin would say ; "a bird has," we know he says, "exactly the degree of emotion, the extent of science, and the command of art, which are necessary for its happiness " — and for the happiness of 27 Feathered Architects human beings too. Across the lawn in the Douglas fir — " Look, look, how he flits, The fire-crowned king of the wrens from out of the pine," for his nest is there, about live feet from the ground, a fairy palace of a spherical shape, hanging suspended by three delicate threads in the air, under a bough which forms a soft green canopy and curtain from the world's rude gaze. The golden-crest is the smallest English bird, and the only English bird which has a hanging nest. It is beautifully made of moss and lichens, mixed with down and wool and spiders' webs, and softly lined with feathers. So fragile are the threads that bear it, it seems as if the nest must fall when the breeze sways the branch, or the bird flutters into her home. She will let us visit her nest a dozen times a day, and will perch on a bough while we look first at the eggs and then at the nestlings, scolding her little heart out in polite remonstrance, but not rudely, like Mrs. Blue-cap. Sometimes she will sit still looking reproachfully at you with her black beads of eyes, re- fusing to move, emboldened by the en- couraging song of her mate as he bids her be brave and stick to her post in that funny 28 Feathered Architects little song- of his, with which he relieves her weary hours and reminds her of the days when he wooed her. How the little wrens pack into the tiny hanging nest is a mystery. One day, after a short absence, when we suddenly visited the nest it was startling to be greeted by a firework of golden-crested babies, which went off with a whizz, and the air rained fluffy feather- balls on the grass. It was an anxious moment, but watchful parents soon gathered their offspring under the pine, and we will hope under their wing, as "a light wind blew from the gates of the sun " and the turtle-doves wooed and cooed overhead in the pine-tops. Two sweet turtle-doves come over the sea year by year to this garden, their soft cooing adding to the peace and rest : " Cuck-oo ! Cuck-oo ! was ever a May so fair ? " And the birds echo the sentiment, the starling up in the acacia imitating all the others, not content with his own harsh note, which he tries, with endless bowings and bluster, to make you call a song. Of all the common nests in this Garden of Peace, the chaffinch will take the prize for order and trimness ; it is very small for the size of the bird, and is built neatly of moss 29 Feathered Architects (which somehow is always green), and interwoven with hair and grass, not built with sticks and twigs like other nests. This interweaving of course keeps it com- pact and tidy, and makes this tiny home a ereat contrast to the bullfinch's nest, which is built low down at the edge of the rhodo- dendrons, an untidy little construction of loose twigs apparently built up criss-cross like spilikins, yet firm enough for parent marauders to rear a family of young garden marauders to worry our hearts next spring when the buds are covering the trees. The fly-catchers are lazy, and build in last year's nest on a ledge in the trellis ; and black- birds, throstles, and sparrows, greenfinches and black-caps, with robins galore, have their homes all over the garden. It is as good as a visit to the Natural History Museum, with this glorious advantage, that the hearts of the birds in this garden are beating, and they can wander at will wher- ever their fancy leads them. Each nest is a work of art, all of infinite variety, and all of infinite interest ; each feathered architect has done his best ; and, as the spring sun shines against the blue distant firs, the young greens of the trees vie with each other in variety of tint, and the "charm of birds " encircles us, again Ruskin's words 3° Feathered Architects echo in my heart, " Why should not our nests be as interesting things to the angels as birdnests are to us?" for "we ought to all be doing" human work which would appear better clone to creatures above us, than it does to ourselves," a supposition which in its simplicity, with birds for teachers, surely cannot be an insolent one. 3 1 " You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along Under the thorns on the green sward ; and strong The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird clapping of the woodpecker Rang lonelily and sharp. The sky was fair, And a fresh breath of Spring st'xrfd everywhere." APARTMENTS TO LET "Apartments to let." This notice is all over the Garden of Peace in the very early Spring- ; in fact, as early as March, and the landlord visits the tiny tenements at intervals to see if any have been taken. Our bird boxes will be described in another page ; the hollowed larch logs with move- able tops, and these make cosy homes for the different tit-mice and starlings. Luckily sparrows have not found out these apart- ments, which is fortunate, for a sparrow is a presuming, vulgar bird, and quite devoid of conscience. A fly-catcher had a beautiful nest on a ledge of the trellis, half hidden by starry clematis and glorious Gloire de Dijon ; it appeared a dangerous place for a home to the uninitiated, but the fly-catcher sat happily peeping over a rose at the passer- by. But a day dawned when she went for a ramble with her mate, leaving another egg beside the two already laid. An ugly -> - Apartments to Let sparrow and his wife took it into their heads to oust the fly-catchers, and adding a little untidy straw and streamers of bass matting, turned out the eggs, and laid their own instead. The fly-catchers were aggra- vated naturally, but they have no pluck, and lost heart at once, and after a faint remonstrance, left the sparrows masters of their nest. The landlord, however, was displeased, and after the sparrows' eggs were laid a long ladder was placed against the house, and the whole nest destroyed. " Now you see what comes of taking our home," clicked the fly-catchers, and the sparrows flew off to chatter angrily in the laurels. The sweetest home in the garden is hardly in the garden at all, for it is on the window-sill of the room where the mistress dwells. It is a little green square box, with a lid which lifts up and down on hinges, and a hole in the side facing south, so that the sun may shine in at the window at will, and bring living, health-giving rays to the inhabitants. On April 7th, a pair of big tits, hearing tell of these apartments, came to prospect. The hen bird flew inside, and searched the corners well, while her mate clung to the edee of the hole, and chattered all sorts of 36 Apartments to Let oood advice, and wearied her with suo-o-es- tions. Then they flew away, and were not seen again, and the landlord thought the box would be tenantless, for no other birds called to view it. Of course they did not, for the news spread abroad that the big tits had really taken it ; and on May 5th they came early in the morning, and put a little moss loosely in the four corners — just a little pinch of moss, and no more — and flew away again for two whole days to talk over their labours quietly, and to make up their minds what to do next. Even on the third day they did not trouble to do much, and only the four corners were lightly covered as before; but that evening Mother Big Tit took up her abode there, and said to her mate that the following morning he must really get to work at a proper nest, and stop fooling about, for she meant busi- ness, and was going to lay an egg. This thoroughly frightened him, and early next morning, when he found she really had ful- filled her threat, he fetched a lot of rough tufts of hair and scraps of moss and fur to cover up the precious egg. They neither of them had time to put the little home really into proper order till the 10th, for as she was busy laying her eggs, he had most of the fetching and carrying to do by him- 37 Apartments to Let self. But by the ioth all four corners were well and firmly filled up with moss, and the round centre lined with hair and fur and a few little feathers. All the tufts had been disengaged, and some of the coarsest taken away, and the rest neatly laid, so that it might be pulled over the eggs when He and She flew abroad. As far as the landlord could gather, Mrs. Bio- Tit, when once she had laid her eleven little white-speckled-with-red eggs, and had made up her mind to sit, never left the nest again till her young were hatched. How her little bones must have ached, and how cramped she must have got, but a mother heart, even in a bird, is possessed with a marvellous patience, to which there is no beginning and no end, and no question of "how" or "when." Hour after hour her faithful mate fed her. When he flew on to the mountain ash on one side of the window, and uttered his little call, she would half rise, and peep out to see whether the coast was clear, and no stranger at the big window (of course she did not mind her mistress), and when she had ascertained all was well she would give contented little chuckles and twitters in her throat, and he would fly clown, and, clinging to the opening, 38 I itsMfe Apartments to Let would drop die dainty morsel into his wife's mouth. Often durinsr the day the lid would be lifted and loving eyes would peep in to see how things were progress- ing, only to be greeted by a great stretch- ing out of wings and an angry hiss, as much as to say, " I know you don't mean any harm, but for goodness' sake do leave me alone." On May 28th the first little Qgg was cracked, and a tiny orange-red lump, with a square head and great obtruding blind eyes, wriggled into existence, and called itself a bird. Not till the 30th was the last little life launched into the world in the window-sill box, and then the serious part of the entertainment began for the father and mother. Backwards and for- wards, backwards and forwards, from early morn to eventide, they journeyed with tempting green caterpillars, sometimes varied by a fly or two. The coming of either parent on to a bar which supported the eaves was always the signal for a great commotion in the little home ; such whis- perings and twitterings and struggles to get to the top of the bunch, for it was a trial of patience for the tiny birds to wait while their father and mother looked round and about to see that all was safe. Then 41 Apartments to Let was the amusing time to take a peep and to be greeted by the baby chorus, and to see down eleven little yellow throats while the long necks were outstretched and little bare wings flapped. Soon the feathers began to creep down the quills, and by the ioth the eyes were open, and it became a matter of certainty to a visitor that they were really young big tits. Louder and louder twittering, and the parents began to look tired and worn, for appetites never flagged, and every day more food was re- quired. " We'll never have a large family again, my dear," said the father, as he dropped a big green caterpillar into the gutter by mistake. " I can't think why you lay so many eggs." " Because I like to be a credit to my race," answered the mother, as bravely as she could. "A Big Tit would think it infra dig. to be black-capish, and only lay four eggs." " I daresay you are right, my dear," answered the husband, as he listened in despair to the cries for more from the box, " but I think myself that Mrs. Black-cap is wise in her generation." The mother sighed ; she did not care to agree, but she was a little tired out, and 42 Apartments to Let felt glad the next spring was a long way off. But the work was nearly over, for by the 1 6th all the young ones had flown, except three backward, timid ones, and they followed on the morrow, and silence reigned on that window-sill. Of the other apartments to let the old walnut-tree stumps were the prettiest. A giant walnut had been felled down by the ruined abbey, and was forthwith sawn up. Seeing some splendid limbs with knots and holes, the landlord begged he might have some for his lodgings in the Garden of Peace. One was planted on the lawn, and made into a two-storied mansion, and covered with everlasting white sweet peas, where tender oreen tendrils clun^ to it in loving sympathy for its fall. Another was on the bank enveloped in the entrance of a Virginia creeper, and a third placed in the shadow of the Douglas fir, but too much in the shade, for no tenant has been found as yet. All the boxes in the trees were full in the spring, and could be visited at will. Families of big tits, blue caps, marsh tits, and starlings ; but of all the homes the window-sill box was the landlord's favourite. 43 vde-r tA " Flowers are the beautiful hieroglyphics of Nature, with which she indicates how much she loves us." Goethe. UNDER THE SPANISH CHESTNUT "You may place a hundred handfuls of fraorant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his constant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose," writes Jami ; and again, "The nightingales warbled their everlasting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rosebud and the rose." Reading these lines under the shade of the Spanish chestnut in the rosary it came to me, if not " with the splendour of a sudden thought " at least perfectly, what beautiful ideas, like rays from heaven, form a halo round flowers and birds. It seems so easy to trace a touch of the finger-tips of God in the sweet blossoms, and legends of the garden are welcomed rapturously by those who have a soul for flowers. The very first idea of the flower's birth is beautiful. It is said that in the garden of Eden they bloomed as flowers Under the Spanish Chestnut have never bloomed again, but outside, amidst the bareness and barrenness, our first parents as they toiled from morn to night mourned their loss. At last the angel of love took pity on the toilers, and as their tears fell on the thorns and thistles, tangled briar and brambles, the gracious sun shone through their tears and the prismatic colours turned to flowers. Every flower and bird has a story of its own in the Garden of Peace, only it varies with the mood of the owners. Some are old, some are new, but I will tell them as they come to mind. The story of the passion flower-which clings to the trellis is known to all, repre- senting as it does the Passion of our Lord. " The leaves resemble the spear that pierced our Saviour's side, the tendrils the cords that bound His hands, or the whips that scourged Him ; the ten petals the apostles, Judas having betrayed and Peter deserted ; the pillar in the centre is the cross or tree, the stamina the hammers, the styles the nails ; the inner circle about the central pillar the crown of thorns, the radiance the glory, the white of the flower the emblem of purity, and the blue the type of Heaven. The flower keeps open three days and then disappears, denoting the 48 Under the Spanish Chestnut resurrection." Thinking- of the passion- flower brings the beautiful cross-bill to me with his crossed bill, which was bent as he tried in the pity of his bird-heart to pull the cruel nails out of our Saviour's hands and feet, and makes a bond, closer than kinship, with the robin, whose red breast was given him in memory of a drop of our Master's blood which soiled the little brave bird's breast when pecking at the thorns in the cruel black-thorn crown round the sacred Head. Robert Herrick, who evidently was envious of the babes in the wood, wrote an ode to him : " Let thy last kindnesse be With leaves and mosse work for to cover me ; And while the wood nymphs my cold corpse inter, Sing then my dirge, sweet warbling chorister. Perhaps the nymphs he alludes to are violets, for the violet was once a nymph called Tanthis, whom Apollo courted ; but she loved him not and fled from him and hid in the woods and was turned into the little modest flower which every one loves for its sweetness. Viols on which the fairies play. Old world names of flowers fill the borders with thoughts and memories, and the pen would weary in the telling before 49 d Under the Spanish Chestnut we could pass halfway round the garden, for in the different seasons there is hardly a plant which will not furnish a poem. Rapin speaks of the Mary-gold (the gold of the halo round Mary's head) : "She Phoebus loves and draws her golden hue From him, whose sparkling beams she keeps in view." The French call it " souci du jardin," which is a pretty name enough and the old poets " flower golde and mary-budde." Rosemary, too, with its healing powers and old-world fancies, is one of Mary's flowers ; it is regarded as an emblem of constancy, and it is grown in Germany in large pots in winter and sprays are sold for religious ceremonies. In the springtime the snow-bell of the Italians rings a tiny peal in answer to the throb of the heart of Spring, and drops its head to earth to hide its heart from the cold blast, whilst it bids us know that it was St. Agnes' flower. After the snowdrop, the crocus in its bright raiment of "cloth of gold" pierces the brown earth and points a finger to the sky, and calls to the crown imperial to tell its story. Some say she was a Queen who was driven from Court, and, spent with grief, was turned into a blossom, keeping 5° Under the Spanish Chestnut the imperial beauty and the name ; but there is a far more beautiful story which links it with the passion-flower and birds In the garden of Gethsemane, where our Saviour in sorrow and agony suffered for the sin of the whole world as He never suffered on the Cross, the flowers drooped their heads as He passed, only the crown imperial holding her head aloof. Our Master looked at the flower and sio-fied ; the flower heard the sigh and its blossoms hung repentant at once, great tears gather- ing in the petals ; and the crystal tears are there now if you lift the golden blossom and peep within. Its sweet honey is sup- posed to be poisonous to bees, but this I will never believe. Old writers call the daffodil Lent lily, or chalice flower, and after blooming to cheer the fast they add to the glory of Easter. Amidst the April showers, irises creep up their stalks and through their gossamer mantles. " Fair Iris now an endless pomp supplies, Which from the radiant bow that paint the skies, Draws her proud name, and boasts as many dyes, For she her colour varies and her kind, As ev'ry season to her growth's inclined." So there is small wonder that the iris is with us nearly the whole year round, and 5i Under the Spanish Chestnut that she has colours in her paint-box to suit all tastes. " • • • • Who can paint Like Nature? Can imagination boast Amid his gay creation, hues like these? And can he mix them with that matchless skill, And lay them in so delicately fine, And make these varied marks so just and true, That each shall tell the name denoting Its peculiar birth ? " But as I muse on sweet stories of flowers the birds are jealous, and a cuckoo in the wood bids me tell how the village girl kisses her hand when she hears him for the first time in the spring and asks the question, " Cuckoo, cuckoo, when shall I be married ? ' and the old folks borne clown with age inquire, " Cuckoo, when shall I be released from this world's care?" But the cuckoo is such a scamp I will not choose to honour him by telling all the stories that I know about him, and I would rather dream of the roses with their end- less legends, and listen to the nightingale who drew my attention to his song as I was absorbed in Jami's story of his love for the rose. It is good to know a bird is constant to a flower, and that you cannot tempt him to worship at another shrine. I will never believe that a nightingale has a sad heart or that he sings with his breast 52 Under the Spanish Chestnut against a thorn; if the mythological history of the nightingale is a sad one, and we all know of Philomela, grief has been softened by time and the beautiful song is joyous at last. "I heard the raptured nightingale Tell from yon elmy grove his tale Of jealousy and love In thronging notes, that seemed to fall As faultless and as musical As angels' strains above ; So sweet, they cast all things around A spell of melody profound ; They charmed the river in its flowing, They stayed the night-wind in his blowing, They lulled the lily to her rest." It was the rose which inspired his song, and a rose it must have been growing in the Garden of Peace. Would you know whence the rose grot her sweet scent ? "Love, in a feast of Olympus, in the midst of the gaiety of a light and lively dance, overthrew, with a stroke of his wing, a cup of nectar, which precious liquor falling on the rose, embalmed it with that heavenly fragrance which it still retains." " Objets des baisers du Zephir" are the roses, and every bud which opens is a fresh joy. I can pick a little handful of buds and a spray of brown leaves and spend happy moments gazing on them and thinking of 53 Under the Spanish Chestnut the Infinite Love which has called them into bloom. If we uncurl a leaf, no human power with art, and science, and know- ledge at command could replace it. We may unfurl a frond of fern but the deftest fingers cannot refurl it. As day by day passes and the garden and flowers endear themselves more and more to the heart, I bid you come with me and I will read new stories to you and find fresh beauties. 54 " Contrast is a good thing, but we should first Kit a good sense of the thing to be contrasted, and we shall find this preferable to the contrast if we are not rich enough to have both in due measure. II e do not in general lure and honour any one single colour enough, and we are instinctively struck with a conviction to this effect when we see it abundantly set forth. The other day we saw a little garden wall completely covered with nastur- tiums, and felt how much more beautiful it was than if anything had been mixed with it. For the leaves, and the light and shade, offer variety enough." Leigh Hum. GARDEN CONTRASTS To one who has a garden soul, the group- ing of flowers in a garden becomes not only a labour of intense love but a distinct art. And I would have you cast as much thought on the arrangement of colour as an artist would on his model's drapery. Sweet confusion doubtless there must be to gain artistic effect, but let there be a method in your madness, and Nature will blend together what is crude and hard. Above all things, bear in mind that colour is what a garden stands in need of most ; and the colour must be in masses, in dif- ferent shades if you like, but in sufficient quantity to attract the eye at once. White blossoms are beautiful indoors, in the orchard, or hanging against a blue sky, but they are of no avail in beds or tubs, though I would allow white everlasting sweet peas to ramble in a tendrilling way over an old stump, or clamber up a green hedge, for there is nothing like this flower, I know. 57 Garden Contrasts Speaking of green hedges, see that you have a whole army of the Tropccohun speciosum clinging to them all along the way. Perhaps it will be hard to grow at first, but plant it in the shade, very deep beneath the soil, and water well, and then hope for the best ; it will repay any trouble, though it be watered over and over again with tears of disappointment. On a bank, in the Garden of Peace, there is a picture of a bed against a dark background. It is lavender, sweet lavender, and amidst the soft, silvery leaves and gentle mauve spikes, tall orange lilies tower in the sun, and shine like copper and gold in their glory. Another contrast I would have you paint with gentle, loving touch, is a group of tall white lupins, straight and upright, in con- sciousness of absolute purity, and at their feet a tangle of scarlet Eastern poppies, glaring in colour, bending their stalks this way and that way, but with faces to the sun ; their great loose petals quivering with love as the warm rays reach their hearts. Round an old Elizabethan house you would plant a border of eucalyptus and nicotina, rosemary and China roses, so that leaning out of your window at night to 58 Garden Contrasts hold communion with the stars that sprinkle the blue, a sweet scent would be wafted to you, to tempt you to dream of the flowers. There is a walk that I know of with a trellis along the side, over which jackmani of every shade is trained, and between the soft hued clematis roses are planted, all Richardsons, and different yellow shades, harmonies in amber ; then a little further on grows a hedge of tropse- olums, from the darkest maroon to scarlet and palest buff, all in the wildest confusion, running rampant across each other in a mad dance of growth, clinging to one another with their leaves and tendrils in their endeavour to reach the highest point first. Another harmony for a bed is in a mixture of heliotrope and ageratum, the mauve of the one shading off the purple of sweet cherry-pie, and filling in the gaps between the dark leaves. Sometimes it happens that colouring comes by accident, and then it is more beautiful, and appeals to the heart more than a settled plan, be- cause it is unexpected. I remember an instance of clumps of rose campion, statice and gypsophila, a veritable poem in colour ; but perhaps the prettiest group in the sunshine by the rockery is composed of white soft irises and red-orange and yellow 59 Garden Contrasts Iceland poppies. They look like jewels together, for they glisten and gleam as sunbeams play among the flowers, and a peacock butterfly poises on a pearl petal to add fresh hues for the light to catch. There must always be butterflies to play on the borders, as there must always be birds to sino- and nest, and feed. To plant a long border against a shrub- bery I would give the following recipe : In the background sweet peas of every shade and colour, the more the merrier. Then miniature dark-centred sunflowers, and in front of them white single dahlias. One step nearer and a band of old-world blue salvia patens, with its complimentary colour in Jacoby geraniums, and down again to a band of lobelia to intensify the red. Perhaps some would call it, in their ionorance, a vulgar mixture, but Nature cannot be vulgar. Ah ! yes it can. But that was the gardener's fault, for he planted tagetes and purple petunias in a bed and they flowered madly and hurt the eye. Another long border you must back with hollyhocks, scarlet and crimson cactus dahlias in front, all-coloured zinnias (but let no white one fall by accident amongst them), and purple verbena for edging. Of course in the rosary you will always be 60 Garden Contrasts careful to group sweet roses of one kind together. A bed of a sort is best, or at any rate at least six side by side ; but this chapter cannot treat of roses, they want a book to themselves, and then another book to prove the first wrong ! In every garden, at some point, you should come across a patch of red and yellow and blue, and learn to mass if you would garden well and wish to gain a reputation for effect. Let every- thing be planted with a meaning. I stand white Madonna lilies as sentinels at the entrance of my rosary, and in a gap in the shrubbery, across the heath bed I plant another possy of them to carry the eye across the lawn to the woods beyond. More can be done with white lilies than the heart dreams of; there is a majesty about them, and a calmness which gives rest and purity to a garden ; and they group themselves so perfectly in dazzling, spotless garments. Of course every one agrees with the poet that in the spring- time forget-me-nots must grow in every bed, with red tulips between, but spring- time is so beautiful in itself that you need not trouble so much about it ; it is when the green is heavy and the flowering shrubs are over that you must be ready with your contrasts and your colouring. 61 Garden Contrasts In every garden, large or small, old- fashioned, or of modern make, there must in all certainty be a "sweet border." " My lady's border," let it be called. Not a single sprig must grow on it which can- not boast of its scent, or a flower bloom which has only its beauty to gladden the eye. Rosemary, lavender, and thyme will be found there, and dear old crimson clove carnations, side by side with sweet berga- mot. On the wall at the back, myrtle and honeysuckle and lemon-scented verbena, with star-flowered jasamine and magnolias. Mignonette will fill all the gaps, and cherry pie, with here and there a sweet- briar and a bush of "old man." Scented geraniums of course, large-leafed and small, and nicotinia for the eventide. Aromatic, fragrant, and ambrosial odours must all be represented, some with more aroma, some with less, but all sweet ; and some breathe forth their sweetness at dawn and some at even. Violets will hide their heads under the wall, and musk will trespass on the edge, while early in the year lilies of the valley, wall-flowers, and narcissus, jonquils, and sweet-scented irises and peonies will find a corner, whilst " the lavish stock that scents the garden round," will blossom profusely. Some 62 Garden Contrasts lilies are sweet and may peer up between the other plants, but where would the list end ? The sweet border is an endless story, the first page of which is in every heart, and the last is yet unturned, and carries one into another world. 63 <££%&*£& i. "What can we call the principle which directs every different kind of bird to observe a particular plan in the structure of its nest, and direct all the same species to work after the same model ? . . . . To me it seems the immediate direction of Providence, and such an operation of the Supreme Being as that which determines all the portions of matter to their proper centres.'' Addison. CHARACTER SKETCHES "If you will encourage the birds so much, you must not grumble when your fruit buds are eaten, your seeds do not come up, and green peas fail to appear at your bidding. It is the tom-tits do all the damaofe." I could only laugh scornfully at such doleful warnings, and pity one who can really believe that birds do more harm than good ; besides, peas may be a delicious dainty, but what are peas to the song of a blackbird, or the a-lint of green in the sun- light as a greenfinch flits across the garden ? And as for the titmice, they are part of our stock-in-trade; we could not do with- out them, for they give us endless and unceasing amusement through the cold of winter as they feast on pounds of hemp- seed ; and do they not fill our nest-boxes for us in the glad springtide when all the world is young ? Green peas can be purchased for a paltry sum, but untold 67 Character Sketches gold will not bring- the birds as they come to us. One little blue-tit in the garden evidently thought he would show more originality than his fellow- tits, and scorned the ready- made homes in bird-boxes and stumps, so went off with his wife on a voyage of discovery, determined in his curious little bird heart to choose a spot which would be absolutely safe and free from intrusion. At last after diligent search he fixed on his home. On the house, between the uprights of green trellis to which the Reve d'Or roses clung, there were two water-pipes, one being shorter than the other, and, squeezing him- self between the lower one and the trellis he discovered a quiet little recess at the back, " far from the madding crowd," where he could rear up his family in safety. It was a delightful discovery and the nest was built forthwith. Whether insects had become more plentiful and Papa Tom-tit ate more, or whether he grew fat and lazy while his wife laid her eggs and sat upon them, I know not, but by the time the little birdies were hatched and the real work of life begun he could hardly get in between the pipes at all. I have stood for ages watching his heroic little efforts to squeeze himself fiat, holding on bravely to a green 68 Character Sketches caterpillar, and not daring to open his bill and groan, while all the time the twittering inside grew louder and louder, and the tired mother would arrive with more food and watch her mate's efforts with an im- patient want of feeling. " Do hurry up, my dear," she chirped, " the children are dread- fully hungry and I want to fetch more." " It's all very well for you to say ' hurry up,' ' he sighed, " but I can't get in." " Open out your wings and wriggle in sideways, that's how I manage it," she said, and following his wife's advice, he spread out his wings, one in front and one behind, and triumphantly entered. "You are a wonderful bird," said the tom-tit, as his wife quickly followed with her morsel for the children, " A wonderful bird." " Necessity is the mother of invention," she answered, in a tone which rather aggra- vated her husband as casting an aspersion on his reasoning powers, " if you will take a house just for the sake of the situation and view, without giving a thought to comfort, you must put up with the unpleasant con- sequences." If there was one thing more than another this tom-tit hated it was moralising, so he flew off in a rage and left her to do all the 69 Character Sketches work for an hour, which soon made her sorry for what she had said. After hearing this conversation my heart was touched, and I called for a ladder ; and w T hen both parents were absent we cut the trellis away, heedless of the bad language of the pair, who returned and watched us from the rose garden, and regardless of the hungry cries of the nest- lings ; but we were forgiven when, having watched us off their premises, they flew up with a cry of joy and entered without bruising their poor little bodies in the attempt. " Dear, dear, what a surprise," said the father, who thinking force was required, fell headlong into the top of the nest. " Rather a heavy surprise for the chil- dren," grumbled the anxious mother, "you should learn to be more careful, my dear." "Yes, yes, I daresay, but what has hap- pened to the door ? " "The caretakers have been at work, of course, bless them." The caretakers of the garden. That is what the birds call us ; placed here by their Master who numbers their very feathers. Titmice have to take what homes they can find ready-made, and do not, like the woodpeckers, make holes for themselves 70 Character Sketches wherever they wish. Woodpeckers have only to choose their tree and then set to work and bore with their strong bills till they have made a hole large enough. The entrance is always quite circular, as if drawn by a pair of compasses, and they often try experiments, and begin several holes before they are satisfied that all is well. One green woodpecker's nest just outside the garden in the wood is always a joy to us. It is in an old gnarled oak, twisted and knotted by time, which looks down with disdain on precocious saplings rising from the under- growth. Laddie found the nest for us. He heard a mysterious hissing coming from a hole half-way up the trunk, and whined to us to investigate the matter for him, as it was out of his reach. Laddie never loses a chance of gathering know- ledge. His master says it is interest ; I am apt to think he has the bump of curiosity strangely and wonderfully developed. When other little dogs lie quietly at their mistress's feet Laddie will wander about, poking his little black nose here, there, and everywhere, in search of a new sensation. Looking up the trunk at the foot of which the doer was standing on his hind lees quivering with acute excitement, we, too, heard the hissing and knew that he had 71 Character Sketches found a woodpecker's nest for us, and that the young were crying- for food, as all young things do. Calling Laddie away, we took refuge in the bracken at a little distance under shelter of a holly tree. I wanted to watch the beautiful laughing yaffle in his domestic circle, and I held a bough of fern before my face and peered through the tender green curtain. Very soon a cry was heard and the father bird flew down and clung to the bark at the entrance of the hole, but just before going in he twisted his crimson head and espied an enemy in ambush. Hastily he ran round the trunk and peered at us cautiously. Evidently woodpeckers are of a doubting and sus- picious nature, for in spite of cries from the nest he continued to watch us from his coign of vantage. H e thought our presence more dangerous than hunger, and wanted to see us safely off before he fed his little ones. Soon another laugh was heard, and we saw the mother bird approaching, but a warning cry from her mate made her fly away in the opposite direction. " She will soon come back," we said to one another, " if only we wait a minute or two." So she did ; she came back over and over again, but she was never allowed to come near her home. Each time a warning, 72 Character Sketches more and more angry and dictatorial in tone, sent her off again ; and woodpecker wives are good, obedient birds and are, as wives should be, in complete subjection to their husbands, for the famished cries of a whole family and great agony of mind combined, did not tempt her to disobey her mate. For a whole hour we waited, and the yaffle stood on guard, now peeping round one side of the trunk, now on the other, sometimes running up higher to get a better view, then again getting as near the hole as possible to whisper words of comfort to the nestlings, who were be- ginning to think life was hardly worth living if this state of things continued much longer. At last we took pity on them and on their anxious, timid mother and we left them, slightly aggravated at the manner in which we had been kept waiting. As we wended our way through the high bracken, out of sight of the old oak, we heard a joyous, gladsome laugh and knew that once more peace was reigning in that nest, and a mother was allowed to return to her little ones. Woodpeckers should be taught to trust Ah ! but then they built out- side the Garden of Peace, and keepers do not make such safe custodians as the care- takers of the titmice. 75 rfhe Charm These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing Like poets from the vanity of song ? Or have they sense of why they sing? And would they praise the heavens for what they have ?" Tennyson. THE CHARM OF BIRDS To those who love birds, a record by the owner of the Garden of Peace may prove of some interest — a record of the songs of birds kept day by day assiduously for a year. Some may know our sweet songsters by sight, but to identify each individual bird by sound is a gift not be- stowed on many. The first fact to be gathered from these copious notes is that each month in the year has its particular bird — one bird which monopolises atten- tion, and is heard more frequently than the rest. Of course, in different parts of the country different birds will reign supreme. This record was kept in our own particular corner of Surrey, in the midst of the woods. To January is dedicated the mistletoe- thrush, whose nick-name of storm-cock in- dicates that he sings as a warning that tempestuous weather is pending ; all birds seek shelter from the blast, but he sings 79 The Charm of Birds from the top of the tallest tree, and " braves the tempest out." Other birds in this month are only heard at rare inter- vals — the pigeon, yaffle, and robin, now and again the three bell-like notes of the big tit and a nut-hatch breaking the mono- tony ; others are there for the eye to rest on, but not for the ear to note. The thrush is February s bird, singing lustily early in the morning and well up to dark, more in the woods than in the garden at first, the certainty that spring is coming bubbling up in each triple cadence of his song. He sings on rainy days more than other birds do, and prefers them to bright sunshine ; perhaps he realises how loving songs can recall sunshine in dark times. Pigeons are noisy too in February, and the chaffinch tries to tune up, but fails miser- ably ; while the nut-hatches and jays call to each other in the woods. March may be claimed by the robin, for practice has brought him some good notes by then, and though he does not sing all the year round, as some imagine, he makes up for it in March. Bright sun in the morning, after a night's frost, warms the hearts of the tiny choristers, and the edges of the woods are ringing with outbursts of their melo- dies. About five o'clock in the morning 80 The Charm of Birds the blackbird begins; and the "mad little poet " now waits till evening, for his nest is completed and his mate is laying her eggs — perhaps he is anxious about the future — paternal cares weigh heavy on his spirits. The yellow-hammer was in full song in the middle of the month, and on the 27th two little notes in the Spanish chestnut certified that spring was surely come, for the chiff-chaff had arrived, with tired little notes at first, but soon to get stronger. April is a great bird's month, belonging by right to the blackbird, for he sings lustily all day long. The mistletoe- thrush ceases for the year ; and by the end of the first week most of the warblers arrive, and after a rest become very noisy. All day long the chiff-chaff repeats his tiny song, and thrushes again sing more and more. Smaller birds, such as the hedge- O sparrow and wren, do not sing much at the close of April ; in fact the hedge- sparrow is almost dumb. Through the woods occasionally the long whistle of the nut-hatch is heard ; robins and thrushes are the last to go to bed, and the chaffinch is almost annoying with his persistent, short song. On the 9th, two swallows arrived, and in the last week the nightin- gale was first heard in the garden — that 81 v The Charm of Birds professional amongst songsters who is un- rivalled and supreme. He is so well taught ; the strength of his vocal organ is wonderful. Bechstein tells us that his larynx is much more powerful than that of any other bird. The compass, flexi- t bility, and harmony of his voice is beauti- ful ; however rich the blackcap's note may sound, it is quite thin if you happen to hear a nightingale at the same time. Nightingales vary very much — some sing infinitely better than others, especially the older birds. They have a tantalising habit of beoinnino- a sono- over and over ao-ain, then breaking off suddenly in a provoking- manner, just to make the listener wish for more. Gay Philomel ! I find it difficult to trace traditional sadness in your tone. Perchance, since the Wild Birds Act, you have become more joyous. King Cuckoo's reign in May is indisputable ; he is noisy and somewhat disreputable in his habits, yet he is loved by all, and there is an echo in almost every heart when he is heard for the first time each year. Most birds sing very little when rearing their young, consequently some are partially silent this month. The chiff- chaff, however, never leaves off sinorino- his monotonous little see-saw song, and all the 82 The Charm of Birds warblers are heard warbling love-lyrics to one another. We note that thrushes sing more at the close of May, and blackbirds less. Many birds compete for precedence in the record for June. In the garden, golden-crested wrens are heard more often than the rest ; in hedges, the yellow- hammer ; and the white-throats sing un- ceasingly, and put the robin to silence ; while chiff-chaffs and chaffinches are noisy everywhere. On the third of the month, the dear cuckoo was out of tune for the first time, and as the long days of this beautiful fresh month drag slowly out, he is heard persistently round the garden and woods till towards the fourth week, when gradually he sings less and less as the willow-wren begins to call more and more. Perhaps birds are wrapped in admiration of the glory of roses, and forget to sing ; perhaps their voices are tired out, for at the end of June all the feathered songsters sing very little. There is no doubt that the turtle-doves belong exclusively to July ; their soft purring in the pine-trees marks the rest and peace of a hot after- noon in the cool shade of the mespilus on the lawn, with a book lying idly on the grass, and the hum of Nature blending with the fall of the weir in the blue dis- 83 The Charm of Birds tance. Nearly all warblers stop singing ; only an occasional blackcap, white-throat, and chiff-chaff are heard ; they are saving their breath for the flight across the ocean. "Johnny Squealers" chase each other round and round the house, and the fly- catchers are noisy, they always fuss so over their young, who seem to need no end of attention. In the rhododendrons, greenfinches scream, and the nut-hatches' winter note is heard in the wood, but is drowned by the cooing of doves, and passes unheeded. Winter seems a long way off in summer-time — old age is out of sight in the July of life — who would not rather listen to the cooing than trouble about winter notes ? Atigust may belong- to the woodpecker, for he is heard here, there, and everywhere — a flash of green between the tree-trunks, then an echo in the oak copse over the field. In the woods all the young jays are chattering in com- pany ; while at eventide the "burring" in the beech tells us the fern-owl, or night- jar, is close at hand. Now and then the chiff-chaff is heard — mostly his call-note— and then September comes, and it is only in the sunny corners sheltered from the breeze that you hear him ; on the 20th he was heard for the last time. September 84 The Charm of Birds belongs to the jays. In this month their cry is paramount ; not a song, but the best they can give us. Towards the end of the month only the robin, nut-hatch, and tits are heard daily. October recalls the owl every evening at dusk, when the leaves fall and the wind whines weirdly in the chimney. Even the robin is almost silent, and the hedge-sparrow again comes to the fore. Suddenly the nut-hatches — after being silent many days — are heard, and a lark soars singing into the sky in search of sunshine. When "the days are cold and dark and dreary " in November and Decem- ber (for these months must be bracketed together), you hear the hedge-sparrow piping a sad little note, only heard at this time of the year ; and the wren rattles as a few stray leaves run races over the gravel. Drip, drip, drip, falls the rain on to the verandah. Sometimes the robin ticks just to show he is alive ; and one misty morn- ing a pigeon and blackbird relieved the monotony. The year is tired out and old, and the birds are silent. Tits come search- ing for seed, and now and then nut-hatches chatter, but the "charm of birds" is heard no more, and hope for a coming spring— which seems a long way off — is all that comforts the heart. 85 " You have heard it said — and I believe there is more than fancy even in that saying, but let it pass for a fanciful one — that flowers only flourish rigidly in the garden of some one who loves t lie in. I know you would like that to be true; you would think it a pleasant magic if you could flush your flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; nay. more, if your look had the power, not only to cheer, but to guard; if you could bid the black blight turn away, and the knotted caterpillar spare; if you could bid the dew fall upon them in the drought, and say to the south wind in the frost ' Come, thou south wind, and breathe upon my garden.' 1 ' John Ruskin AMONG THE ROSES In our Garden of Peace which the birds haunt there is a verandah from which the "Maids of the Village" hano- in oreat white clusters, and a " Crimson Rambler " sends up vigorous shoots to meet the snowy fringe, and a loose " Reve d'Or," in golden splendour, climbs another pillar, trying to outshine its neighbours, while between them a soft blush rose blooms in gentle competition, but, failing in the attempt, hides humbled behind its leaves, little dreaming that all the while it is sweeter than the rest. This verandah leads to the ro*se-garden circling our old sun-dial, sheltered by a belt of shrubs, and partly shadowed by Spanish chestnuts. Tall white Madonna lilies in stately gran- deur stand sentinel at each entrance, and near by a jewelled bed of white irises and orange Iceland poppies shines and glitters in the sun ; mauve and white campanulas ring their bells for joy, sweet -bergamot 89 Among the Roses raises a red tassel of a head, and pale lark- spurs borrow a little blue from the sky to help to bring- it nearer the earth. On the sun-dial a fly-catcher sits unmindful of the quick flight of Time, while " everywhere are roses, roses ; " and it is difficult to choose at which shrine to worship first. Wordsworth's " budding rose above the rose full blown," is exemplified among the hybrids, as, for instance, sturdy " Captain Christie," or by virtue of merit, " Margaret Dickson," a giant white rose with a faint blush centre, resting in its framework of green. As each glory unfolds itself, Ed- mund Waller's advice to the maiden in his poem comes to mind, and wonder ceases that he chose such an object-lesson as the rose. The old reign of cabbage-roses and China roses is over now, and the beautiful, soft, delicate, loose tea-roses carry off the palm, with their additional charm of red- brown foliage and crimson stems. It is no longer a case of "gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Young June is still a-flying," for they bloom generously from May to October. Tawny-yellow buds of " Madame Charles," and the soft flesh-colour or cop- pery-rose of the sweet " Comtesse Nadail- lac," vie with " Jean Ducher " and " Fran- cisca Kruger"'in tint and absolute perfec- 90 Among the Roses tion, while a blushing bunch of "Madame Lambard " makes the pure whiteness of the "Hon. Edith Gifford " more pearly- white than ever. It is when standing in the rose-garden by the sun-dial, with an armful of precious blooms, that the old legend of the rose can best be appreciated ; " The Rose came of nectar spilled from heaven ; Love, who bore the celestial vintage, tripped a wing and overset the vase ; and the nectar, spilling on the valleys of the earth, bubbled up in roses." This is easily understood by those who love their gardens, and each rose-tree typifies intense sacrifice by blooming its heart away, giving out the fullness of its being at the sun's behest. The poet's love of the tea-rose is easily traced in his fascinat- ing book, "The Garden that I Love." " Faultlessness in flowers," he says, "is almost as rare as in human beings ; but tea-roses are absolutely faultless. Their stems and their leaves are as Graceful as o their buds ; not one of them is of a bad, vulgar, or tawdry colour," and they are found in our garden that we love, though the poet can sing their praises with a truer ring. " Poetry is a luminous halo which makes thought clearer as well as larger," and can paint the flower with a 9 1 Among the Roses truer touch than an artist's brush. On the window-sill, near the rose-garden, was a forgotten heap of rose-leaves, and when the human world was still, a blackbird came and laid a mottled green-grey egg among the leaves, thinking perhaps the world was a hard world even in a moss- lined nest, and that at all hazards one nest- ling should be reared on a bed of roses. A nature lesson for Ruskin to ponder over and turn into the language beautiful, for parent birds had best be content with what the Creator provides, and a bed of roses is not always a criterion of peace. Addison, in the Spectator, written in 171 1, tells us that "a cloudy day, or a little sunshine, has as great an influence on many con- stitutions, as the most real blessing or misfortunes ; " so with the roses, a shower or a day's sunshine influences the life of a rose. After a shower, soft buds droop their heads and rose-leaves cover the brown earth, hurt by the lightest touch of wind or rain. " Listen to the garden talking while it rains," writes Phil Robin- son. " The roses are weeping their pretty flowers away, drop, drop, drop, one petal at a time, and then, on a sudden, a whole sob-full." Golden " Etoile de Lyon" petals, "Anna Olivier's " flesh-tinted fallen 92 Among the Roses leaves, and an orange litter from the over- blown blooms of "William Alan Richard- son " carpet the beds. After the rain, thrushes come listening- over the grass as worms are tempted to the surface, and family conclaves of red-starts and robins are held under the bushes. " I imagine it would be delightful to study roses for a decade, and then write a book," says an American author ; but a study of decade upon decade would never reveal half the varying beauties centered in all tea-roses. There was a time when it was said they were too delicate to grow in the open border, but that time has passed, and a scatter of withered bracken proves sufficient shelter for the tenderest plant. Of course amateur rose-growers possess Dean Hole's excellent book on roses, full of good advice, pithy sayings, and quaint humour ; but rose-culture has advanced, and his know- ledge is hardly up to date ; besides, expe- rience is the best teacher, and success must be won through failure. For exhibition, roses should be plucked with the dew on them, for "the rose is sweetest washed with morning dew," as it lies like the faint blue bloom of a peach on the dark crimson satin leaves of " Prince Arthur " and " Fisher Holmes ; " at three o'clock in the 93 Among the Roses morning, when the lark is sinp-inor its sweet welcome to the dawn — before the sparrows begin to chirp or the first thrush awakes — the anxious rosarian must be busy in his rosary. But what true lover of the queen of flowers can have the heart to disbud and prune and " prink " unmercifully for the empty glory of having, perchance for one day in the year, a finer rose than a neighbour's ? After the rose is dead the fragrance lives, for the leaves, gathered and blended with sweet spices, make again the pot- pourri which our great-grandmothers made in the olden time, and which haunts by its sweetness old blue jars in the oaken chests. And roses — whether monthly roses or yellow and white Banksia clusters, or the old-fashioned rose of Provence — make a pot-pourri of sweet memories in hearts, and conjure up shadows on the grass long vanished away. By the old moss-covered grey sun-dial, as the sun marks time, and thoughts of wild roses climbing the hedges outside, or a waft of sweetbriar on the air, bring other dreams, every bloom in the rosary "by human love made doubly sweet," begs for love in return, "eternal vigilance," and gentle worship. 94 •• The merry titmouse is a comical fellow ; He weareth a plumage of purple and yellow, Barred over with black, and with white interlaced, Depend on't, the titmouse has excellent tasted Mary Howitt. A STUDY IN TITMICE Santa Klaus has vanished, and the children have almost forgotten the glory of Yule- tide; but outside our window in the Garden of Peace a Christmas-tree still stands erect, because no one has the heart to take it away, and disappoint the feathered tribe who come in ceaseless flow from the trees and shrubs to enjoy the long-continued feast. A leg-of-mutton bone hangs in gaunt nakedness from one bough, dainty bits of suet take the place of gaudy- coloured balls, little tins of seed and nuts serve for sweetmeats, while pieces of meat or slices of plum-pudding form a variety for those who do not care for toys. From the top of the verandah on each side of the tree, a miniature Venetian bronze water- carrier hangs — suspended by a single string -full of hemp-seed, and on these the tit- mice perform startling acrobatic feats a thousand times a day. The water-carriers sway to and fro as the breeze catches 97 G A Study in Titmice them, and the whole forms a study in tit- mice, illustrated from Nature's wonder- book, which would satisfy the most ardent Selbornian and fill pages in " Nature's Notes." All the surrounding shrubs seem alive with tits, for the news of the feast has spread to the neighbouring woods ; and though at first the birds had to learn how to crack the seed, the lesson was an easy one, and hunger a quick teacher. The ox-eye, or great-titmouse — called also the saw-sharpener — by virtue of its size- like John, Duke of Burgoyne — rules the roast. Sometimes three of the same species land on the edge of the bucket at once, and cling with outstretched wings and open beaks, hissing at one another as it spins round and round, all three wanting to make a dive for seed at the same time ; then two turn giddy and fly away, and while number three is trying to steady himself, a little blue-cap pops down and carries off a prize. There is no need of the poet's question : " Where is he, that giddy sprite, Blue cap with his colours light ? " For he is here, there, and everywhere, little pugnacious bird, in and out between 98 u A Study in Titmice the big tits, and if kept waiting for a moment, he performs an acrobatic feat, and climbs head downwards on to the string, then lets himself fall with a run (as the naughty boys do on the banisters) when his turn comes. Well does Words- worth call him : " Lithest, gaudiest harlequin, Prettiest tumbler ever seen,' with his crown of bright cobalt blue and dress of green, and grey, and white. Gilbert White calls him the blue titmouse or nun, and says he is a greedy bird, and can easily be caught in a snap mouse-trap baited with suet, but it is better he should be entertained on hemp-seed in winter and sunflower-seed in autumn, or allowed to pick holes in apples in the ground. Poor little blue-tit, why (as Mr. Knapp says) should he have incurred the anathema of a parish for an item to be passed in a church- warden's accounts " for seventeen dozen of tom-tit's heads ? " At first the tits could hardly balance themselves on the spinning bronze ; but soon they became adepts at the feat, and have already learnt that if they want to stay the wild career of the bucket, they must lodge on the edge with 99 A Study in Titmice their heads in the opposite direction to which it is turning, and the check given by a sudden dive stills the bucket for an instant ; then the big tit flies down, and, findincr a coal-tit ensconced within, flies off in a rage, giving a parting kick to the whole concern, and frightens the tiny bird into beating a hasty retreat, leaving the treasure free for the bigger birds. He wit- son is right, the titmice are perfect mounte- banks ; it makes no difference to them in their gambols and antics whether their heads or their heels are uppermost. The marsh-tit, which after a time is easily dis- tinguished from the coal-tit by the absence of the white patch on the nape of the neck, may doubtless be very fond of hopping about osiers and willows, and searching for food in swampy ground ; but Seebohm seems to think he has hardly a right to his name, for he is so often found in a garden ; and, at any rate, one thing is certain, he loves hemp-seed, and is the sweetest, prettiest little bird ever seen, not much larger than the golden-crested wren. He has to watch his chance, and sometimes rests on a rose bush, giving a plaintive "chip-chip," as if hurt in his feelings at having to wait so long, full of wonder at the blue-tit's boldness, and awe at the ox- IOO A Study in Titmice eye's size. It is very pretty to see the tits on a branch hard by, with the seed between their feet, tapping and breaking the hard shell ; and when they are all at work, the shrubbery sounds like a fairy forge, with fairy hammers beating on the anvils. Strange to say, the coal-tit can break three seeds while the big-tit breaks but one, and the marsh-tit carries off three at a time in his tiny bill to have a private feast on his own behalf, perhaps shares it with a pro- spective mate. In a lily-bed in our garden, the mice were busy feasting on the bulbs, so we improvised a trap of an earthenware jar sunk in the ground half-full of water, and just below the rim a piece of butter was placed. There was joy the first morning when the corpse of a mouse was discovered, a little brown burglar of bulbs, and the success of the trap was extolled. With the second day the voice of mourning was heard in the land, for a greedy blue-tit, preferring butter to hemp-seed, had ven- tured in too far, and a beautiful nut-hatch shared the same fate. After these two verdicts of " Found drowned," even the lilies were sacrificed ; and if beyond the Austrian pine and heath-bed one lily is missed from its place and fails to raise a 103 A Study in Titmice white pure head to the blue sky, it is better so than that we should have to ask with Wordsworth, " Light of heart and light of limb, What is now become of him ? " or miss the rapping in the wood and cry of the nut-hatch in the garden. Now that the bullfinches are busy at work despoiling the snowy mespilus of buds is our time for fixing up our bird-boxes ; these have been made of logs of larch hollowed out about fourteen inches long, with all the bark left on them, and a hole cut in the side, for the birds to enter at. The top is made to take off and on, so that the landlord may pay a visit at will to see how his tenants are pro- gressing". These boxes are nailed to trees in warm cosy corners, where they may look as much like the trunk as possible, little ready-made homes for tits and nut- hatches ; and underneath the verandah is fastened one of the old-fashioned terra- cotta nests, shaped like a bottle, which in olden times were fixed under the eaves of houses to tempt "good-luck" birds to come and breed, and so bring happiness to the homestead. Round the Christmas-tree the ouzel, with tawny bill, 104 A Study in Titmice chases its mate ; timid starlings come hobbling up to feed ; sparrows, of course, with the hedge accentor ; chaffinches, green linnets, thrushes, and robins join the merry throng ; but only the tits are acrobats, and — but for an occasional nut- hatch — enjoy the venetian-bronze buckets to themselves. i°5 / bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my icings are shaken the dews that waken The siceet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast As site dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve in rain, And laugh as I pass in tIlUllder. ,, Shelley. BIRDS IN A GARDEN Flowers blossomed in the Garden of Peace in gay profusion, but the forest trees and conifers made the shelter, and with belts of shrubs, formed cosy corners everywhere. It was to the trees that we owed the presence of so many feathered friends, and these were loved as dearly and watched over as carefully as the flowers. As the shadow moved round and round the sun-dial in the rosary when the sun shone, marking- the passage of days and months, birds in the garden sup- plied us with bird studies gratis ; and, watching from the window, or from some nook outside, family histories were illus- trated by living pictures, in which charac- teristics could be noticed at leisure. Beautiful lessons, too, might often be learnt from the birds, and many a thought and idea carried to the heart in a song. It was early one morning in the merry month of May, that a thunderstorm broke 109 Birds in a Garden over the Garden of Peace. Peal followed peal, and lightning came in sudden flashes like golden darts ; the air was heavy, and clouds rolled up from the moorland. The great dawn chorus was silenced, and trem- bling birds hopped into the shrubberies to listen. Drops of rain fell like tears, and each clap seemed louder than the last, as if some awful battle was waging in the sky, and unseen spirits were at war. We could only stand in awe of the power of the storm, realising" how the majesty of sound triumphed, and for the moment the invisible held undisputed sway. Birds were silent — all except one beautiful throstle, who sang on in the mountain-ash by the window. As peal followed peal, the song only became louder and more musical. Lightning and thunder never daunted him ; raindrops could not still that voice. It was as if trust vanquished fear. Over and over again the triple melody was repeated, and for nearly an hour the bird sang with scarce a moment's interval. The storm was long, but the song was longer, and the trustfulness of that little bird-heart carried its lesson abroad. He never paused, as some might pause, to wonder when the storm would cease, or whether his loved ones were safe, but he I IO Birds in a Garden patiently waited, and so had strength to sing through weal and woe. There was another thunderstorm in the garden late in the summer, at even-tide, when clouds hung heavy overhead, and hearts ached with sorrow and sadness. Birds were silent, for the work of nesting was over, and they needed rest ; and no throstle sang to bring trustfulness. As we listened at the open window, longing for the air to cool, the bells in the church tower some distance away suddenly broke into a peal, and the sound came wafted on the breeze between the thunder and lightning. It brought the same story as was heard in the song of the thrush, echoes from an unknown world, where all is love and rest — but it is of the birds we are writing". May and June are the months when fascinating nestlings sport upon the lawn, accompanied by anxious fathers and mothers, who generally take one little birdie at a time for an exploration across the grass, to see what hidden dainties can be found under the turf. Blackbirds and thrushes cause us most amusement, for they are over-bold in their greediness for their offspring. Outside the bay-window, in the sunshine, when the white acacia shines in in Birds in a Garden pearl drops against the blue, and Iceland poppies glow, and sweet syringa and white scented peonies are in bloom, a father blackbird was seen promenading with his son. The parent bird very soon pounced on a buried grub in the grass, and trium- phantly brought it to the surface ; this he presented to his voracious offspring, who took it rudely, and without as much as a word of thanks to his father, who went off chuckling to himself. Presently the old bird, missing the continuous chirp at his elbow, looked round, and in a moment grasped the situation. His son in his greediness had taken the grub sideways, and was striving with infant herculean gulps to swallow the dainty morsel. Fly- ing quickly to the spot, the blackbird took the grub in his beak, and holding it tight by one end, encouraged his son to try again! It soon became a case of "pull devil, pull baker," and the process length- ened out the grub, which gradually— but this time, surely — disappeared down the baby throat, after which satisfactory con- clusion the two hopped off together, the old bird puffed up with pride at his own cleverness, and the young one puffed out by the hugeness of the grub. Another favourite feeding spot, gener- I 12 Birds in a Garden ally occupied by a parent thrush, was Laddie's bowl under the Spanish chest- nut, which was often left standing- full of meat and bread, for Laddie was a fastidi- ous dog, and would only eat when his loved master stood watching by his side. On the edge of the bowl the old throstle would take up a position, while the baby thrush stood below with his great mouth wide open, showing a big yellow cavern of a throat ; and into this mouth his father would drop scrap after scrap, till the poor little greedy bird gasped for mercy, and could only hop away in painful jerks, too full to chirp, and too overcome to long for more. But feeding on the lawn was not always an unmixed pleasure. Feelings we had none for grubs or caterpillars, but when a beautiful sparrow-hawk came darting down, and catching a fledgling in his claws, pro- ceeded to pluck it and eat it in full view of the same window, sympathy was divided, though one's heart was naturally with the victim. Still, hawks must live, and they are good friends to us after all. Keepers may blame them, but keepers are not in- fallible, for their horizon is so limited and their judgment warped. Other parent birds are not so devoted to 113 11 Birds in a Garden their young after they have left their nest as blackbirds and thrushes are. A poor little greenfinch will often be left alone crying for hours in the mespilus tree after its first flight, no fond father or mother coming in answer to the plaintive lament ; and it is difficult to conceive of the loneli- ness in that little heart, unprotected in a pitiless world. Now fly-catchers are dif- ferent ; they will fuss and fuss over their young, sitting till late in the evening on the old stump, and uttering their mono- tonous "click click," with a big caterpillar in their beak times without number, and when at last they have shoved their children off the trellissed ledge, they will fly about in family parties, like the titmice do. In the trellis over the drawing-room window the chaffinches built a nest, build- ing even as we watched them, turning round and round, and flapping their wings to make it a perfect round, then flying off to the wood for another bit of lichen from the oaks. The different titmice lived in every corner of the garden. A pair of cole-tits took up their abode in a hole at the foot of a gnarled old apple-tree, twisted by age, and lichened by time. They were very 114 Birds in a Garden pleased with themselves for having dis- covered such a desirable abode ; but, alas ! they were not left in undisputed possession for long. A toad took it into his ugly square head to inhabit the hole, and tried to oust the pair. He had as much right there as they had, he croaked crossly, and in spite of pecks, he sat and sulked in a corner. But the tits also refused to move, so after a long consultation and conces- sions on the side of both parties, they mutually agreed to live together harmoni- ously ; and when the young birds were hatched, old Mr. Toad would often watch over them whilst the parents went off together in search of caterpillars off the rose trees. When watching the tits one day we saw three young water-wag- tails fly down upon the lawn, and stand in an exact line at regular intervals, wait ingf for a minute or two, absolutely still, so that we might admire their drill; they were evidently three recruits from the bird army, and very proud of themselves they looked at their achievement. Endless amusement can be gained from our feathered friends if only you watch them carefully. The greatest fuss ever experienced in the Garden of Peace was when a lazy untypical mother cuckoo laid "5 Birds in a Garden an e<>' beaks down the parental throat. Then we breathed again ; peace was for the moment restored. You may still write in poetical language about the ideal dove, but there never was such a scene of rage and jealousy witnessed in the Garden of Peace until the doves came. But then they were the real doves, not the "harmless doves" we are bidden to imitate 170 " The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer fade, The autumn droop in winter, the birds for- sake the shade ; The winds be lulled, the sun and moon forget their old decree, But we, in Nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to Thee /" Bishop Heber. L'ENVOI " Light and shade by turn, but Love always." * With the sun-dial's story ringing- in our ears a sono comes waftino- on the wind, and we wonder where we first heard it. Perhaps in our hearts, or was it a bird's song writ in words? or only just an expres- sion of our lives like the blossom of a rose. Only it must have been written where the lilies grow in answer to a question which only the butterflies heard. This is the song which made even the throstle silent for a while .... " Will you wander up the pathway In the sunny side of love ? Will you live among the flowers With the blue sky up above ? Ever reaching out for blessing, Ever trusting, ever bright ? " And she answered in the sunshine, " I am with you in the light" H3 L'Envoi " Through the sunshine to the shadow, AY ill you linger by my side ? If the path be rough and stony, Will you faithful still abide ? Bravely bear and bear together, So the burden light be made ? " And she answered in the twilight, " I aw with you in the shade." " In the afterglow of living Will you rest, love, with me there ? All the pain and all the pleasure Lost in lives of answered prayer : Waiting for the summons, darling, To the Home beyond the sky ? " And she answered in her patience, " I am with you till I die" *J/- J£, Jf. M, TV" "7T TT *7V* There was a hush. Then the birds took up the refrain and it was echoed from every tree and shrub. The flowers opened their petals to listen and the bees came humming, forgetting the honey for a moment in their enchantment at the song. Even the butterflies fluttered round the sun-dial to see the time of day and were caught by the artist for his picture. There could be no record of the Garden of Peace without the pictures, for words might not carry the home beyond the little circle, or accurately show the nut-hatches carrying nuts and the tomtits' acrobatic 174 L'Envoi feats. It was a subject to be treated tenderly, but then an artist can only treat scenes tenderly when Nature guides the pen. So the artist came and listened to the birds while he worked in the Garden of Peace, and he watched the giant poppies open and shut in the sun, and the white sweet peas' gentle blossoms. " All great Art is praise," says Ruskin, and an artist's office " seems to be that of interpreter and mediator between Nature and man .... his eye can see deeper, his ear hear more, his heart is sooner thrilled, his sympathies are more attuned, his mind receives physical impressions more directly than other men." And of the garden where our birds live I would have you know the story, for we treasure the flowers as living jewels and no bud opens without our knowledge. We were utterly ignorant as to garden craft and jardinage when we came, but with love for a teacher and experience for a guide, our knowledge has grown and our toil has been tenderly rewarded. Gardening at first was a dream, and but fancied play. " Our garden shall be full of surprises," we said to one another in the cold spring-time when we entered into possession, and when the white coverlet of <75 L'Envoi snow was lifted which came to purify our advent. " We will plant a group of Japanese anemones here on the bank and they shall lift their white heads against these QTHIS'LITTLE'PIG< HIS PICTURE BOOK' CONTAlBlNG : rTHlS LITTLE PIO f ^THE FAIRY SHIP ' r KING LUCK1EBOY f WITH THE ORIGINAL, •COLOURED PICTURES BY i WmXEFlCfVANE " x v ENGRAVLD&PRinTEDBY EP' <;MUNDEVATiS. ♦LONDON* JOHN LAME V]GO ST X< -CHICAGO' • STONE vSc KinbALL^ " The full beauty of the quaintly arranged volume cannot well be conveyed in words, and little folks must insist that their elders afford them the opportunity of an inspection." — Dundee Advertiser PRICE 3/6 NET. •MOTHLRHUBBARDr 'flERPlCTURE-BOOK;. Containing: 1 Mother- Hubbard "3 The Three Be ars,&J s The Absurd ABC: L> I/WiTH THE ORIGINAL-COLOURS >PICTURES;AW ILLUSTRATED PRE J ' FACE& ODDS & END PAPERS NE vt « r BEFORE PR1NTED:BT WalteriCrtvme- TOHN-IANE: THE RODLEV HEAT): LONDON* «>e. THE PI' III. RATIONS OF Bodley Head Anthologies (The) — continued. n. MuSA PlSCATKlX. By John BUCHAN. Willi 6 Etchings by E. Philip Pimlott. III. English Elegies. By John C Bailey. iv. English Satires. ByCHAS. Hill Dick. Bridges (Robert). Suppressed Chapters and other Bookishness. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. [Second Edition. Brotherton (Mary). Rosemary for Remembrance. With Title-page and Cover Design by Walter West. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. Crackanthorpe (Hubert). Vignettes. A Miniature Journal of Whim and Sentiment. Fcap. 8vo, boards. 2s. 6d. net. Crane (Walter). Toy Books. Re-issue, each with new Cover Design and End Papers. This Little Pig's Picture Book, containing : 1. This Little Pig. 11. The Fairy Ship, hi. King Luckieboy's Party. The three bound in one volume with a decorative cloth cover, end papers, and a newly written and designed preface and title-page. 3s. 6d. net ; separately od. net each. Mother Hubbard's Picture Book, containing : 1. Mother Hubbard's. 11. The Three Bears, hi. The Absurd A. B. C. The three bound in one volume with a decorative cloth cover, end papers, and a newly written and designed preface and title-page. 3s. 6d. net ; separately ad. net each. Custance (Olive). First Fruits : Poems. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6J. net. Dalmon (C. W.). Song Favours. With a Title-page by J. P. Donne. Sq. t6mo. 3s. 6d. net. Davidson (John). Plays : An Unhistorical Pastor.d ; A Romantic Farce ; Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ; Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime. With a Frontispiece and Cover Design by Aubrey Beardsley. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. net. Fleet Street Eclogues. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 4s. 6d. net. [ Third Edition. Fleet Street Eclogues. 2nd Series. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 4s. 6d. net. [Second Edition. A Random Itinerary and a Ballad. With a Frontispiece and Tit'e-page by Laurence Hous- man. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 5s. net. Ballads and Songs. With a Title- page and Cover Design by Wal- ter West. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s. net. [Fourth Edition. New Ballads. Fcap. 8vo, buck- ram. 4s. 6d. net. De Tabley (Lord) Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. By John Leicester Warren (Lord de Tabley). Illustrations and Cover Design by C. S. Ricketts. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. [ Third Edition. Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. Second Series, uniform in binding with the former volume. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. Duer (Caroline, and Alice). Poems. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. Egerton (George) Keynotes. (See Keynotes Series.) Discords. (See Keynotes Series.) Young Ofeg's Ditties. A transla- tion from the Swedish of Ola Hansson. With Title-page and Cover Design by Aubrey Beards- ley. Crown Svo. 3s. 6d. net. Symphonies. [In preparation. JOHN LANE Eglinton (John). Two Essays on the Remnant. Post 8vo, wrappers, is. 6d. net. Trans/erred to the present Pub- lisher. [Second Edition. Eve's Library. Each volume, crown Svo. 3s. 6d. net. I. Modern Women. An Eng- lish rendering of Laura Marholm Hansson's "Das Buch der Frauen " by Hermione Ramsden. Subjects: Sonia Kovalevsky, George Egerton, Eleanora Duse, Amalie Skram, Marie Bashkirtseff, A. Ch. Edgren Leffler. 11. The Ascent of Woman. By Roy Devereux. hi. Marriage Questions in Modern Fiction. By Elizabeth Rachel Chap- man. Fea (Allan). The Flight of the King : a full, true, and particular account of the escape of His Most Sacred Ma- jesty King Charles II. after the Battle of Worcester, with Twelve Portraits in Photogravure and nearly 100 other Illustrations. Demy Svo. 21s. net. Field (Eugene). The Love Affairs of a Biblio- maniac. Post 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. Fletcher (J. S.). The Wonderful Wapentake. By "A Son of the Soil." With 18 full-page Illustrations by J. A. Symington. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. Life in Arcadia. (See Arcady Library.) God's Failures. (See Keynotes Series.) Ballads of Revolt. Sq. 32mo. 2s. 6d. net. Ford (James L.). The Literary Shop and Other Tales. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. Four-and-Sixpenny Novels Each volume with Title-page and Cover Design by Patten Wilson. Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. Galloping Dick. By H. B. Mar- riott Watson. The Wood of the Brambles. By Frank Mathew. The Sacrifice of Fools. By R. Manifold Craig. A Lawyer's Wife. By Sir Nevill Geary, Bart. [Second Edition. The following are in preparation : Weighed in the Balance. By Harry Lander. Glamour. By Meta Orred. Patience Sparhawk and her Times. By Gertrude Ather- ton. The Wise and the Wayward. By G. S. Street. Middle Greyness. By A. J. Daw- son. The Martyr's Bible. By George Fifth. A Celibate's Wife. By Herbert Flowerdew. Max. By Julian Croskey. Fuller (H. B.). The Puppet Booth. Twelve Plays. Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. Gale (Norman). Orchard Songs. With Title-page and Cover Design by J. Illing- worth Kay. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 5s. net. Also a Special Edition limited in number on hand-made paper bound in English vellum. £1 is. net. Garnett (Richard). Poems. With Title-page by J. Illingworih Kay. Crown Svo. 5s. net. Dante, Petrarch, Camoens, cxxiv Sonnets, rendered in Eng- lish. With Title-page by Patten Wilson. Crown Svo. 5s. net. Gibson (Charles Dana). Pictures: Eighty-Five Large Car- toons. Oblong Folio. 15s. net. Pictures of People. Eighty-Five I.ar^e Cartoons. Oblong folio. 15s. net. \ln preparation. THE PUBLICATIONS OF Gosse (Edmund). The Letters of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Now first edited. Pott 8vo. ss. net. Also 25 copies large paper. 12s. 6d. net. Grahame (Kenneth). Pagan Papers. With Title-page by Aubrey Beardsley. Fcap. 8vo. ss. net. [Out of Print at present. The Golden Age. With Cover Design by Charles Robinson. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. [Fifth Edition. Greene (G. A.). Italian Lyrists of To-day. Translations in the original metres from about thirty-five living Italian poets, with bibliographical and biographical notes. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. Greenwood (Frederick). Imagination in Dreams. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. Hake (T. Gordon). A Selection from his Poems. Edited by Mrs. Meynell. With a Portrait after D. G. Rossetti, and a Cover Design by Gleeson White. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. Hayes (Alfred). The Vale of Arden and Other Poems. With a Title-page and a Cover designed by E. H. New. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. Also 25 copies large paper. 15s. net. Hazlitt (William). Liber Amoris; or, The New Pygmalion. Edited, with an Introduction, by Richard Le Gallienne. To which is added an exact transcript of the original MS., Mrs. Hazlitt's Diary in Scotland, and letters never before published. Portrait after Be- wick, and facsimde letters. 400 Copies only.